Ah, the Coloradan Rockies... Out here, especially in the valleys, the softwood trees can become rather tall. They're nothing, in contrast to the redwood forests farther west... But for a certain someone, they're about to be.
Up high on softwood limbs, mourning doves groom themselves. They may look like symbols of peace...but don't be fooled. The cocks can get quite horny, come mating season.
Brown creepers creep along tree trunks, almost completely blending in with what they're up against. Their beaks are needle-like; like a wren's. With them, they go fishing for worms in the bark.
One twig at a time, the grosbeaks build their nests. Out here, if they're not yellow-and-black, they're black-white-and-red. (Themselves; not their nests.) Their nests, by contrast, almost blend in with where they're built. Too bad the eggs' scent wouldn't fool a preying marten.
Waxwings sit in big groups, at the tops of trees. They collude, and conspire. Unclear, though, as to what the fuss is about...
There are crows and ravens here. They fly everywhere, cawing as they go. They're brilliant, and they know how to make unbearable eyesores of themselves; like Urkels with wings, and without glasses. Alas, that's not to say they're not good for anything.
The nuisances of the jays pollute these woods. And these woods have got all three kinds of them: the blue, the Steller's, and the pinyon.
The tiger beetles are like emeralds on six legs. They're the fastest things their size. They make the kangaroo mouse look lame. Good thing they don't join the mujahidin anytime soon...
Up in a pinyon pine, a jay abandons his roost. Unclear as to why. It's as if annoying everyone close to his roost is no longer fun for him...
In his absence, things near his roost become quiet. They never are, of course. Again, jays are some of the noisiest creatures in Colorado. Some, even, make the cicada look like a whisper.
Down the branch from the roost, a tiny portal of dusk magic opens. Through it, Sara falls. Now, she's in nothing but a G-string. Now, she's a ten-thousandth her normal size...courtesy of a stint in the Dusk Dimension. Above her, the portal closes.
She doesn't take long to absorb her new situation. She's a good listener; that might be a reason why Donnie married her. She imagines she'll never know. Donnie can be a fool, when put to the test.
The jay returns to his roost. To little Sara, he's huge. She's like a bug to him.
Hence, she'd best start considering ways down, from here. She just HAD to come out of the Dusk Dimension in a tree. That's just great; she hates heights. But at least at her size, she'd have to be in a very foolish position to fall off. Sara's no fool...although a lot of her loser boyfriends have expected her to be.
Slowly, she creeps away from the jay. She's hardly close enough for him to see, if he looked down... But right now, that jay is so big, Sara's in no mood to take chances.
Backing up, her bum bumps into something. At first, Sara thinks it's the trunk. Alas, she wouldn't expect the trunk of a pinyon to be slimy, and covered in warts
In fear, she looks up. She's between two of the front toes of a boreal chorus frog. She's like a bug to it, too. Sara would hate to think that his stomach, in contrast to the jay's, is the lesser of two hells...although she could be surprised. Too bad she's in no mood to find out.
The good news is, she's not going to that hell. The bad news is, something almost as bad is about to happen.
Hoping against hope that the toad hasn't seen her, Sara eases off his toes, and tries to creep away. Shit; she might get warts because she touched the revolting thing. Come to think of it...she thinks she just heard it breathe, while up against its skin. (Toads breathe through their skin.)
She means to make a stealthy getaway. She's sure that against any other leviathan in the Colorado Rockies, this would work. Alas, she and this toad would be evenly-matched...if only she were bigger.
Hence, an array of gold chains, about Sara's size, conjure themselves, just above the toad's front foot. They elongate. They ensnare Sara, and shackle her.
They levitate, and wrap themselves around the toad's front leg. Now, Sara hangs upside down from it. She's shivering, of course.
It also seems that the Dusk Dimension gave her a haircut, while she was trapped in there. Now, her hair is a pixie cut. Shit; if only Donnie could see her now...
With his new captive taken, the toad turns, crouches, and hops to a lower branch of the tree. Sara screams for the entire way down. Again, she hates heights. Once, she thought that that's why her husband volunteered to fight the Federation's wars across space and time, rather than herself. But sometimes, you just can't expect reality to have mercy on the weaker.
Not too far away, there are military forts. There's a ground force fort that quarters air assault infantry, as well as some light artillery. There's a SOF fort that quarters alpine warriors. There's even a naval air station on one of the lakes' shores.
Don't let their organization fool you; they're not with the Federation. Flags aren't really their thing...and neither is national defense. They're mercs. And they're owned by some of the most crooked labor unions, legislators, administrators, and arbitrators you've never heard of. If you ever did, they'd either kill you, or change their names, or both. Hell, they might even give some of their vehicles new paint jobs.
Some very nice towers overlook some of these forts. They're topped with penthouses; hunting lodges of sorts. Each tower could quarter a labor union...or an infantry battalion.
Inside, there are water features. There are glass walls. There are Glade plug-ins. On a good day, there's serene new age music coming from upstairs.
Near the atriums, there are Zen gardens. It's a mystery, as to how they're ever maintained. One wouldn't expect anyone who stays or works here to be the peace-mongering type.
Framed black-and-white photos hang on walls. They're of Colorado's left-wing governors; Grant, Adams, Waite, Thomas, Orman, Shafroth, Ammons, Gunter, Sweet, Adams II, Johnson, Talbot, Ammons II, Knous, Johnson II, McNichols, Lamm, Romer, Ritter, Hickenlooper...and the incumbent, Polis.
A few red flags hang from the buttresses in here. They're labeled with the golden hammer-and-sickle of communism. Just as many black flags hang from other buttresses. They're labeled with the ringed letter "A" of anarchism.
Downstairs, there's a shooting range. A man wears headphones, as he shoots a Henry single-shot rifle many times. It's a .45-70 Gov't.
This man's a colonel; or rather, he's a dismissed lieutenant colonel. In the old days, he commanded an air assault brigade. But a disagreement with his boss got him dismissed. Now he works for a secret PMC. He's a member of its command company.
Meet Col. Jayhoon. Once, he was a wolf among men. Now, if not for this new post of his, he'd be forever staked down like a goral. In the ground force, he fired shotguns, antitank weapons, and grenade launchers, instead of these. Often times, it felt like he could move earth.
Upstairs, a sailor plays mini-golf. Meet LtCdr. Sczerbiak. Once, in the navy, he was a lieutenant commander. He flew stealth warplanes, and gladly provided air support to any ground units that ordered it. Every now and then, he flew a night mission. In some years, he was an officer aboard a guided missile frigate, who supervised many gunner's mates. He was also an officer of the watch.
He still does this, from time to time... Only it's out-of-uniform, and without those two brass oak leaves that lieutenant-commanders wear on their uniforms, while working. To make up for that, though, a lot of his golf clubs are brass.
Outside, a commando comes back from a hunting trip. He goes on a lot of these. He's very fond of the Henry rifle; preferably the ones with big magazines. He also loves Bowie knives and machetes.
Meet Maj. Matthews. He's an SOF vet. There, he was a major. In those days, he commanded a company of ninjas. Many abductions, he oversaw.
All three men have had a ball, being the wolves of a nation's defense. Alas, a wolf can't hunt forever...and the fiercest will one day become blunt. But at least this PMC knows, or at least hopes, that old dogs CAN, in fact, be taught new tricks. But then, it isn't so much new tricks that these old dogs have to learn; it's orders. But then, where they come from, they're used to that. Following orders, after all, is a minimum requirement for joining any military force...nation-defending or otherwise.
It's been so long, since these men have been in touch with their own souls. But then, they'd better watch out. That might come back to haunt them any day now. Funny; they always thought that they hated having souls, and that's why they ever became warriors to begin with...